( This... is no lie, only truth made weapon, a doubled blade. Jiang Cheng was not invited, only anticipated in the way one welcomes sickness after a winter's hardship, knowing full well the visitation is a yearly due and to transgress against its periodicity is to deprive one's ancestors of a well-earned laugh at one's expense.
The foregone conclusion of misfortune: that is Jiang Wanyin and his congress of shallow lakes and lotus flowers, so naturally perverse, that they sit in constant sprawl and shamelessly lavish bloom, allowing each spectator to know them deeply, intimately, in granular detail. And his silks, chink of their golden thread nearly deafening, must a man's robes double as a minor orchestra?
...it is not that Lan Wangji sets out with each exhalation to tally every way in which the general notion of Jiang Cheng or his specifics personally offend him. It happens organically.
Much like this fish's broad smile, slippery and unctuous, dark and dead eyes alight with beady laughter. He smacks his lips once, loudly in the way of flesh, fleetingly stitching to itself. Again. Then the fish nods to Jiang Cheng, waving a webbed hand to please, good sir who pays these debts, participate in the games.
Lan Wangji does not fume. If he breathes and light arson happens around him, correlation is not the mother of causality. He flinches, allowing Jiang Cheng wide enough of a berth at the table that an unambitious, modest state might erect its borders between them. )
You know the game? ( Ah yes, this intellectual challenge of... throwing dice. )
no subject
( This... is no lie, only truth made weapon, a doubled blade. Jiang Cheng was not invited, only anticipated in the way one welcomes sickness after a winter's hardship, knowing full well the visitation is a yearly due and to transgress against its periodicity is to deprive one's ancestors of a well-earned laugh at one's expense.
The foregone conclusion of misfortune: that is Jiang Wanyin and his congress of shallow lakes and lotus flowers, so naturally perverse, that they sit in constant sprawl and shamelessly lavish bloom, allowing each spectator to know them deeply, intimately, in granular detail. And his silks, chink of their golden thread nearly deafening, must a man's robes double as a minor orchestra?
...it is not that Lan Wangji sets out with each exhalation to tally every way in which the general notion of Jiang Cheng or his specifics personally offend him. It happens organically.
Much like this fish's broad smile, slippery and unctuous, dark and dead eyes alight with beady laughter. He smacks his lips once, loudly in the way of flesh, fleetingly stitching to itself. Again. Then the fish nods to Jiang Cheng, waving a webbed hand to please, good sir who pays these debts, participate in the games.
Lan Wangji does not fume. If he breathes and light arson happens around him, correlation is not the mother of causality. He flinches, allowing Jiang Cheng wide enough of a berth at the table that an unambitious, modest state might erect its borders between them. )
You know the game? ( Ah yes, this intellectual challenge of... throwing dice. )